Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan Page A

nine times out of ten.’
    â€˜So when are we going to light the first fire?’ calls Marty Robinson, a ruddy-faced Islander with a huge thirst and a legendary wild streak.
    â€˜Hear, hear,’ echoes the crowd, clapping cheerfully. Aren’t most of them volunteer fireys who are experts at lighting spot fires for hazard reduction burns?
    â€˜Well, we need to start with a few volunteers to form a committee . . .’
    There’s rustling and shifting as people begin to stand and make their way to the kitchen to grab a plate. Beer in hand, the Islander with a big thirst comes over and wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder. He leans in to Sam’s ear to whisper in a beery breath: ‘Details bog us down, mate. Think of the total picture and go for it. We’ll back you all the way.’ He whacks Sam hard and moves off, his long skinny legs not quite steady as he makes a beeline for the bar.
    One by one, Cutter Island residents shuffle up to Sam and stand alongside him, rocking on their heels, nursing their beers. ‘We’ll support you all the way. And that means with cudgels or swords, mate. Whatever you think is best. Every war needs a general and you’ve been unanimously elected. Good on ya. We won’t let the bastards win.’
    The offshore artists approach him in a group. Their spokesperson, John Scott, a short bloke with a Roman nose and deep brown eyes, who is a skilful and diplomatic organiser, outlines a plan in a rush to cover his shyness. ‘We’re going to need money to fight. Count on one painting from each of us. We’ll hold an auction and a BYO knees-up party to follow. Or maybe the other way around. Nothing like a few stiff drinks to loosen wallets and run up the bids. Phoebe’s already come up with a fabulous idea for a logo. She’s a genius, that dame. Did you know Garrawi means cockatoo in the local Aboriginal language? Trudy thinks a giant papier-mâché bird would look good in the Square. Draw attention to the cause. She’s going to get the kindergarten kids to help. We’ll need a couple of weeks. OK? Lord, it’s a sweat-bath in here, isn’t it?’
    The two Misses Skettle, looking fresh as two pink daisies despite a long stint in the kitchen alongside Kate and Ettie, coyly sidle up to Sam and offer to distribute material as soon as it comes off the presses, to combat the developer’s evil propaganda. ‘Thank you, ladies, from the bottom of my heart,’ he says, gallantly kissing their powdered and rouged cheeks. Evil propaganda? What bloody presses?
    Halfway through the evening, discussions about the proposed development peter out from lack of fresh fodder. Talk inevitably shifts to the problems caused by the recent rain; the rise in giardia cases and the multiplying swimming-pool-size potholes. The track needs bulldozing so the community ute doesn’t crack an axle. Long after dark, when these topics too have been hammered to death, the weary but well-fed and -watered people of Cutter Island and the bays head home under swollen black clouds that block out the silver sparkle of the night sky. Even during war, life goes on.
    Â 

 
    Chapter Seven
    Over the next twenty-four hours, Sam hits the phone. He decides to do away with Kate’s ritzy committee job descriptions, which, when he broke them down into everyday language, lost their terror. All they needed was a leader, a thinker, a doer and a heap of support staff. Anyway, nothing beats all hands on deck, he figures. And human nature being what it is, the right people will put up their hands for the right jobs. No mug wants to volunteer and make an idiot of himself. Which, he tells himself swiftly, is not the same as fearing failure. Different kettle of fish completely.
    First, he dials Marcus on his mobile. ‘Mate!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘You have just been unanimously voted onto the Save Garrawi committee. Congratulations.